


Laughing In The Purple Rain

by kaskaskia_dense



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Awkward Flirting, Bad Decisions, Canon Jewish Character, Crushes, Fluff, Getting Together, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mario Kart, Multi, Nightmare Before Christmas References, Polyamory, fav tag right there, i talk about them blushing too much???, only a bit tho dont worry, please dont its lonely in the comments, yes PLEASE leave me alone, yes the title is from the prince song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-22 22:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13176387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaskaskia_dense/pseuds/kaskaskia_dense
Summary: Pete hangs out with Patrick over winter break. They watch the Nightmare Before Christmas. Joe wins (loses) at Mario Kart. There's hair dye. And kissing.Interesting.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> its cold as FUCC here and yeah i just realized how often i use the word blush in this forgive me.

“Patrick, listen, we’ve totally got to dye your hair sometime.”

They’re sitting on Patrick’s bed and waiting out the first snow of the year. Pete’s good snow boots are tucked away and knocked over sideways in a closet somewhere he doesn’t have time to look for, and Patrick doesn’t have any spare. 

Pete’s Converse will certainly not survive the trek in the snowy, unknown world of the outside—they recently replaced his purple hoodie as the most fashionable thing in his closet.

Besides, the two of them get cold really easily, which explains why they’re both nearly suffocating under at least four blankets each while watching _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ with hot chocolate.

“Shouldn’t I be the one dyeing it? I think I should have some input on the color of my own hair, thanks. Besides, you and Joe would just sneak in some weird liquid that makes all my hair fall out after it’s been colored some ugly color like, I don’t know, booger green.”

“Aw, babe, how did that thought ever cross your mind? You really think Andy would let us get away with something like that? Even he knows neon purple is better than booger green, gross.”

Pete grins mischievously at the blush that overcomes Patrick’s face at the “babe” comment. It might be the cold coming in in a draft—it’s that time of year when Patrick’s always complaining about the lack of goddamn insulation in his house—but Pete can get his hopes up if he wants.

They stop talking for a while and let the movie play. Patrick is one of the only people Pete knows who would even consider watching this with him—he made a joke referencing the movie in a class the other week and nobody even laughed. It might have been because the joke was bad or he didn’t tell it correctly but Pete was really worried it was because nobody watched The Nightmare Before Christmas anymore. Which obviously wasn’t true because it’s one of the few movies from the 1990s Pete can stand to watch. But anyways. 

Pete contemplates making another joke about Jack _boning_ Sally, like, get it, Skellington? Skeletons? _Bones?_ Yeah. Maybe the people in his class didn’t laugh because he’s just plain bad at jokes.

Pete likes seeing Patrick blush. It’s definitely not related to his massive crush on him. At all. His nonexistent crush, that is, because Pete is straight. Patrick is just cute, that’s a universally known fact, and Patrick’s face with a blush that stretches past his smile to the tips of his ears is proof. Pete could list all the evidence that Patrick is as cute as all puppies and kittens and whatever baby bunny rabbits are called, combined, but he doesn’t have that kind of time and Patrick is saying something about the movie which Pete hasn’t been paying attention to for the past ten minutes.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Is Sally supposed to be a rag doll or a girl version of Frankenstein’s monster?’ She’s green and stuff and looks like a possibly Burton-ified take on Frankenstein’s monster but, like, wait, let me replay that one part, maybe—“

Pete lets Patrick rewind it to a couple lines before where they were. It’s also really cute that Patrick cares about this stuff. Now Pete kind of feels bad that he wasn’t paying attention. To make up for it, he begins reaching for his phone to ask Joe what he thinks. Joe’s probably watched this movie more times than Pete’s been to church.

Just before he shoves the blanket off him, though, his phone starts ringing—it’s “Bring Me To Life” by Evanescence (because Pete is just that kind of person), which means that Joe’s the one calling. Nice coincidence.

But Patrick must not have seen Pete getting up to get his phone from the TV stand, because Patrick gets up too and they have relatively similar gaits which means that they reach for it at the same time and their hands brush across each others’ and it would be fine at first but Pete’s first instinct is to literally grab Patrick’s hand instead of his phone because he’s fucking gay and oh gosh he hopes he can be able to just laugh this off.

Which is what he does. He starts laughing, desperately hoping Patrick will just let go and laugh along and they can both immediately forget this. Pete pulls his hand away and tucks it into the pocket of his jeans, sending a message of closing off contact and forcing Patrick to simply hand Pete his phone back and, while it takes a pause for him to join in, gives Pete a small smile. 

He turns away to answer Joe’s call and doesn’t watch for Patrick to go back to his spot on the bed and doesn’t wait to hear his footsteps to make sure. He can hear the return of _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ ’s soundtrack, and that’s all the confirmation he needs, honestly.

“Hey man, what’s up?”

“I’m bored and have nothing to do over winter break. Chanukah was over before this break even began. My family doesn’t celebrate Christmas, so, yeah. I was wondering if I could come over to your place to hang for a bit?”

Pete nearly sighs in relief. This is perfect—someone else to be in the room so he doesn’t have to face Patrick at all times. Joe’s great at alleviating awkward situations.

“I’m at Patrick’s right now. Yeah, I’m sure he’ll let you over.” Pete takes a breath and turns around in order to signal to Patrick that he’s talking to Joe and asking him if he can come over. Patrick absentmindedly nods in Pete’s direction. It feels colder than their interactions before. Pete tugs his sleeve down in guilt so that it halfway covers his hand.

He feels the need to do something that Patrick would scold him for instead of this passive silence.

Like dye his hair purple!

Perfect. He’ll text Joe and ask him to pick some up at the store.

He does that, ignores Joe’s reply asking why, ignores Joe’s follow-up text asking the brand, and turns off his phone and settles back onto Patrick’s bed with a significantly larger amount of space between them than before.

Ugh. And Patrick’s still cute and Pete probably made things awkward for no reason because Patrick would never like someone like Pete and now he just wants to listens to every single emo song ever at full volume.

And he never even asked Joe for his opinion on whether Sally was supposed to be a rag doll or some alternate kind of Frankenstein monster.

-

Joe arrives just before the movie ends with a small box of (kosher) chocolate Pop-Tarts and bright, bright purple hair dye in tow. He must have sensed something from Pete’s tone in the call, because he takes his role as intercessor in stride, jumping onto the bed in between Patrick and Pete with a plop and handing a Pop-Tart to each of them.

“Aren’t you supposed to toast these first?” Patrick’s staring at it like he’s staring at a dog with two heads.

“These bad boys are best consumed unnaturally, dude. You haven’t lived until you’ve had, like, six frozen Pop-Tarts for breakfast.” With Joe, there is no ice to break. Pete loves being friends with him. Even if six frozen Pop-Tarts for breakfast seems like a little much for him to handle.

Patrick once again adapts an expression of disgust and bewilderment. Pete leans a little on Joe’s shoulder and they lapse into a much more comfortable silence before channel flipping. They stop maybe once on Food Network to make fun of Guy Fieri’s hairstyle and continue.

This is more of what Pete had in mind when he wanted to spend time with Patrick in the first place—there’s no blushing, no wanting to rewind time, no awkward, misplaced laughing. It’s all safe. 

At some point, Joe remembers the hair dye and asks Patrick, on a scale of one to David Bowie’s _Low_ , how much he cherishes his bathroom. Patrick says there’s only two bathrooms on this floor, on belonging to his parents and one belonging to his siblings and him, and Joe asks if there’s a sink in the basement they can use. Patrick sighs and reluctantly nods, knowing that Joe would probably have used anywhere with a sink in his house in order to dye hair. Not that Joe would mess up a really nice sink, because that would be inconsiderate and Joe’s not that kind of punk, but.

The three of them rush downstairs, thermal-socked-feet almost tripping running down the stairs to Patrick’s unfurnished basement, and at one point Pete and Patrick are trapped on the same steps as each other with limited space and both of their breathing kind of speeds up but Pete refuses to acknowledge it and continues on, suddenly breathless and if his face is tinted pink when they reach the basement, nobody else acknowledges it, either.

Two hours later, and Pete’s hair has been washed, bleaches, washed again, and dyed bright purple.

He thinks it’ll look better when it’s a little longer; he kicks up his feet from where he’s sitting and sets them on the sink’s rim, shoots Patrick a smirk, and asks him, in a mockingly deep voice, what he thinks of it.

“It’s, um. It’s, uhh, certainly a, ahem, statement.” Pete low-key wants to scream because Patrick is absolutely one hundred times cuter when he’s stumbling over his words and flustered and that Christmas-red blush floods the atmosphere again, but he’s not going to scream, instead he’s just going to laugh again and try and look as good as possible.

Joe jumps right on to the defensive: “It’s _way_ more than _just_ a statement, Patrick, it’s art, it’s a masterpiece, it’s _hair_ , and I created it. Dude, like, what does that kid in the year below us—Ryan? is that his name? Yeah, Ryan Ross—he has _major_ makeup game if you haven’t seen it, _seriously_ , but anyway, he had on this purple—this _exact_ fucking purple one time—and I ask him what the shade is called and he calls it fucking “Aubergine Dreams.” _Fucking “Aubergine Dreams,”_ Patrick! Oh _fuck_. This is, this is—Patrick, this is poetic _cinema!_ ” Joe’s hands are flailing and flourishing, eyes bright and wild, looking like a Shakespearean actor in the middle of a scene and everyone’s watching. “Poh-eh-tick sin-em-uh.” He finished with a bow and they both clap and whoop and end keeling over giggling.

When Pete looks up from chuckling and sees Patrick grinning so wide and out of breath from laughing and perfect, he can’t help but hide his heart eyes. He knows Joe can totally see them and is definitely going to corner him lately and interrogate him stone-cold about whatever his intentions are with Patrick but it’s worth it just to look at Patrick.

But when Pete looks back over at Joe, he’s not judging him or sending him any death glares: he’s smiling at Patrick, too, and blushing, too, and it hits Pete that maybe he’s not the only one feeling this feeling for Patrick.

Well. Interesting.

-

Pete’s and Joe’s parents confirmed that they could stay over for the night, as long as lights were out by eleven at most. They all know that’s some high expectations, but lie through their teeth and agree anyway. At first Pete had thought of this night as shaky, unexpected, maybe not even real, but it’s happening and they’re eating pizza for dinner in the inside porch below Patrick’s bedroom staring at things beside each other.

Pete doesn’t dare look at Joe or Patrick even though he wants to so hard—he wants to see Patrick, talk to him without stuttering or backing out of conversations, and he wants to ask so much of Joe—but Joe and Patrick are just quiet.

They set up a game of Mario Kart after having pizza for dinner with Patrick’s family. His mother compliments Pete’s new hairstyle. Nothing but neutrality there. Everyone likes Mario Kart. Pete chooses who he always chooses, King Boo, and Patrick chooses Yoshi. Joe chooses Bowser and they spend a few minutes bickering over karts and courses until the game is finally set up. Joe’s definitely the one most into the game. Patrick has disinterest glazed all over his thick-rimmed glasses and striped polo shirt and light hair tufting out of his hat. Pete may as well be sleeping by the amount of effort he’s putting into the race. Joe, meanwhile, is on the edge of his seat, eyes wide and believing, looking ready to sacrifice his soul to save his kart from veering off the edge. It’s cute.

The last race is Rainbow Road, and Pete is at least invested as much as to groan once the countdown ends. Joe isn’t usually that competitive, but when it comes to Mario Kart, all bets are off. Of course, he’s a horrible player, but no one ever mentions that when they play.

His excitement radiates off him so much that when it’s down to either him or Wario in last place, all three sets of eyes are glued to the screen, anxiously awaiting the outcome. There comes a point when Joe will either fly off the course or win (win in the sense that he does not get in last place), and Pete and Patrick, being the friends they are, are whooping and yelling and cheering him on like a couple of dads watching the Superbowl.

In the inexplicably surging heat of the moment, Pete grabs at Patrick’s knee and they both pause like the fate of the world depends on what they both do next. Pete’s breathing stops; his heartbeat drowns everything else out. His vision bleeds invisible affection. His tongue trips over itself as he forces a bark of a laugh out, retreating safely back into that coward’s corner of denial, denying there’s anything between them, denying he ever did anything. His autopilot is to treat everything like a joke. Deflection is always easy.

What’s hard, however, is Patrick laughing along as well. The way his eyes burn is unexpected. Pete is stricken, for a second, by how in control Patrick seems, the weight and direction that’s suddenly emanating from his smile, laugh, albeit his blush.

Pete’s head is swirling.

It takes him a few seconds of silence and a blink to realize that his hand is still on Patrick’s knee. Wow, he should really get jeans as soft as this some time. He wonders if they have these in _skinny_ and/or _black_. He’s about to apologize and laugh the contact off again, maybe harsher to drive it in, not speak about it for the rest of the night/week/lifetime, but then _he_ does something unexpected as well:

He shifts his hand so that it creeps slightly up Patrick’s leg, not really grabbing or clinging but more… physical, really, than he would’ve intended at another time.

His laugh then is both thick and hollow, overcompensating, coded in the cold of Patrick’s porch. Maybe he can pull this off—faking it until he makes it. Or whatever it’s called. It’s all completely normal heterosexual joking, pretending all the gay stuff for laughs, bro-talk and bro-laughs and hiding behind a smile. Pete’s done this before; it’s easy, elementary.

 _Completely heterosexual,_ Pete tells himself.

Patrick doesn’t look as amused. His mouth is drawn into a frown and he looks adorably confused. This isn’t supposed to be the kind of thing that has a simple, spoken explanation. Pete just wants to play it off like a joke and see how far he can go. The more he thinks about it, the more fucked-up it sounds, so he doesn’t think about it.

“I—.” Pete doesn’t even want to start that sentence. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he opened his mouth. He switches the topic of conversation from whatever the nothing that this is to his hair.

“Do you think my hair looks good, Trick?” He slips his hand higher. It’s mid-thigh and the air feels the exact amount of dangerous as it should.

Patrick sputters. “What? Why are you—” He looks down at Pete’s hand, then looks back at Pete. Honestly, Pete is just as in the dark as Patrick is.

Pete spares a quick glance at Joe, though it’s ineffective, because Joe is so utterly absorbed in the video game. Still, for safety’s sake.

He shakes his head gently, denying an unspoken question, and moves in closer, his hand sliding up at the same pace as he leans in. Patrick just has to turn an inch and they would be close enough to kiss. The thought alone makes Pete uncomfortable and blushing all the same. He thinks back to all the times he could’ve kissed Patrick, in car rides and bathrooms and sleepovers and parties, and none of them match up to the anticipation he feels so deeply, now. He just hopes to God that Patrick feels the same way, and that he’s not just chalking all this up to the intensity of the moment, touch, the place, an illusion he’s been building up and up since they met under the guise of secrecy. Patrick makes him want to write dumbass poetry and look up long words in the dictionary to describe the adoration he feels when he sees him. Pete is nearly gone with a whisper; he’s just waiting on Patrick, now.

It’s suddenly much hotter on the couch than before.

“Do you think my hair looks good?” he repeats, whispering it all in a mumbled rush, quietly hoping Patrick will just get some hint, any hint at all, and shut up and kiss him. Patrick opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. Blinks. There’s less confusion now, and more of a wondering-what-to-say-next feeling. A tuft of Patrick’s strawberry blonde hair uncurls from under his hat.

He’s still waiting on an answer when a large 8-bit bang sound comes from the video game and Joe curses, throwing the poor remote to the wall, finally breaking eye contact with the screen for the first time in a half hour.

Pete’s smile sours as Joe scans over the scene before him, realization dawning as fear strikes up in Pete’s pulse and a million meaningless explanations spring up in his mind, all defending himself and his hands-on approach to friendship, how Joe should know this by now, how he’s using humor and charm as a façade to mask buried feelings he thought were interred years before. Again, meaningless. He wonders how Joe sees the situation: Pete and Patrick so close, their relative silence from the past few minutes that makes so much more sense now, a hand on a denim-clad thigh. He wonders what Joe thinks of it. Even he has to admit that this looks like something more than friendly cuddling, even, albeit, by Pete’s standards. There’s something about the Joe factor in this situation that kind of makes Pete a bit more flushed and frantic and tense but he pushes that down, too.

Even though Patrick and Pete are both looking at Joe and Joe is looking at Patrick and Pete and they’re all trying to figure out the different pieces of their separate puzzles, Pete can see out of the corner of his eye that Patrick’s tensed as well, shifting up to Pete’s touch, more comfortable than anyone else in the room. Joe swallows and his Adam’s apple bobs.

“Do you guys—do you guys?” That’s it. That’s the whole question. Joe is wide eyed, and Pete will let him live, he’s probably catching up to the past, oh, couple of years Pete has been pining and wishing and keeping up with himself.

Pete deflects the question onto Patrick, turning his head towards him. Patrick swallows as well. Even though Pete doesn’t know how this scene will end, he can still tell that Patrick is cute as fuck when he’s blushing. He has a pretty face. Pete is not as straight as previously considered, he has to admit that, and it occurs to him that he may be the last person in the world to come to this conclusion. Hell, his mom probably saw this coming.

“I think that, um.” Patrick takes a second to look down at the cream-colored rug underneath all of their feet on the floor. Seems pretty interesting. “Joe, do you like Pete’s hair?”

Pete bites back whatever he was going to say when he was going to step in and save Patrick from embarrassment because no matter how much he likes seeing Patrick like this, he doesn’t particularly like Patrick looking hopeless. He doesn’t look hopeless, though, because after he asks Joe, there’s something even brighter gleaming in his eyes. No smile, but no grim expression, no defeat there. He’s encouraging something. Pete doesn’t know what he’s encouraging, but it looks pretty, and that’s enough for him.

The silence is not deafening. This, now, is the deciding goal of a football game, the climax of a blockbuster, the tail of a bridge in an anthem Pete’s probably got downloaded on his iPod.

“I’m the one who dyed it, I’d say so.” Joe tilts his chin up a bit higher. He gets a bite bolder. “Yeah, yeah, his hair looks good.” He doesn’t ask why. Reliable.

“I think it looks good, too.” With that and a golden-coded smirk, Patrick turns and looks straight at Pete, a welcoming smile building up on his face, eyes creasing, downright adorable.

“So—can we—“ Patrick barely has time to nod before Pete is leaning in and not-quite-gently pressing his mouth to his, leaving his hand right where it is, but maybe holding on a little tighter. His mind becomes a simple, constant stream of exclamation marks. His eyes are shut, so he can’t see Joe, which for some reason makes him disappointed.

Judging by how he had seen Joe looking at Patrick earlier, Pete expects Joe to at least be jealous. Maybe not say anything about it right now, but, still jealous. He’s seen him jealous before, nose wrinkled, breath heavy, eyebrows so downturned at their tips they seem stuck that way permanently. Until, of course, someone new comes along with a set of cheap emotional band-aids and a steady face. Pete doesn’t want that to happen again; he can’t let that happen again.

But, God, when he opens his eyes and pulls away from the utter bliss that is Patrick’s pink mouth, Patrick looks so fucking gorgeous that Pete forgets about Joe for a second. Guilty. But, God. He tugs on the collar of his hoodie and rolls up his sleeves. This heat isn’t kidding around.

He manages to spare a glance at Joe. He’s still standing in the same place, eyes still wide, and his hands still don’t know what they’re doing or where to go. They shift out of his pockets onto his dark brown curls into crossing his arms, putting up walls, refusing any entry or exit. Pete has lost his voice for a while now. He can think of so many melodies to fit this scene right now but none of them are drowning out another. The light from Patrick’s porch seems particularly blinding right now, reflecting off of that old grounded mirror and the shiny jacquard of the curtains that shield them from the night and the neighbors and the darkened television screen.

Kissing Patrick was really nice. He thinks of recommending it to Joe sometime but he knows it would come out mean-spirited even though all he ever does is try to be a good friend. Well, maybe not friend when it comes to people like Patrick—people like Joe, he yells at himself to no avail—but he’s always learned that it’s the thought that counts. Pete rescues the uncurled tuft of Patrick’s hair and tucks it back into his hat. Patrick leans into the touch and it’s much more attractive than it should be.

“Are you guys going to be a thing, now?” A blush rises on Joe’s face as he says it.

“Yeah, you jealous?” Pete’s mind is screaming at him for even opening his fucking mouth. He considers running out and taking on a new identity somewhere a million miles away in Canada or maybe becoming an obscure goat herder in Nepal and never having to speak to anyone about his non-heterosexuality again. There was literally prompting to be done for him to say something like that. He can feel the burn of both of their gazes turn on him, and his face heats under the pressure.

“Yeah,” Joe chokes out, and he looks as surprised that he said that as Pete and Patrick are. He doesn’t look like he’s lying or trying to be funny, though. Interesting.

“You can join us,” Patrick blurts, looking like he doesn’t know his mouth had the potential to say that, either, and they’re all in the same club of distrusting the entire English language, by now.

“You’re legs must be tired from standing there so long. Sit here with us, the couch is really comfortable.” Pete means to pat the space between him and Patrick with his other hand, but ends up patting Patrick’s thigh, and wouldn’t he love to have photographed the look on all of their faces when they realize the full implications of it all.

-

The night is awkward. They’re too tired and the experience feels all too fresh to do anything except make out underneath the sheets. They drift to sleeps with smiles; the giggles are the good kind, better than the harsh laughter from earlier, softer and more complete. They all feel more complete.

However, the next morning is even more awkward, having to hide the conglomeration of all of last night’s feelings from Patrick’s poor, oblivious parents. They can now call themselves a “we,” if only to a few select people, and they’ll be living off this high for a while. Pete believes he can put off writing emo poetry in favor of spending some time to get to know his new boyfriends’ sides of the story. When they look outside that morning, the snow-bound clouds are glossed with purple. It doesn’t quite match Pete’s hair, but he can deal.

There’s something sweet in their smiled sighs when they all head out to make the most of the night’s snowfall. If Pete tried hard enough, he could pinpoint it. But he has more important duties now, namely, tending to Patrick’s snowball-inflicted faux wounds and teasing Joe’s aim.

_Sweet._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Andy comes along to make it four; also, his life motto is "shit"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to angelofthedamnlord for suggesting an extra chapter w/ andy and for giving me motivation to write this!! i hope i did a good job, this turned out to be longer than i was originally going to make it and i ended up liking it better with this addition.

Andy is used to being the third wheel. He knows people, and he’s been in one too many friend groups across Illinois for him not to deal with inter-group relationships in the past. He’s generally good spirited about it; it’s nice that people he knows like each other so much and are able to still spend time with him. Hell, he’d even helped one or two couples get together. Andy is calm and patient and trustworthy and a perfect candidate for someone to third wheel without taking it personally. His friends are nice. Andy _likes_ his friends.

But being the fourth wheel is, um, something new.

He’s constantly doing it, too, since Pete and Joe and Patrick are all his best friends who he spends the most time around, and they can never shut up about each other. It would honestly be endearing if they didn’t do it all. the. fucking. time.

It gets especially hard when Pete and Joe stumble into the passenger seat of Andy’s van where he’s been waiting fifteen minutes for them so he can drive everyone home and he can’t even tell them to put on their seatbelts before they’re all over each other, concepts of road safety completely ignored, as well as concepts of personal space. Specifically, Andy’s personal space. There have been multiple times—multiple times!—when he’s been caught in the crossfire of stomachache-level sweetness and cutesy air kisses that only further impede his concentration on the road in front of him.

Because sometimes Andy needs some time to himself, you know, without constantly getting texts from Pete about how incredible it is to have boyfriends (or, at least, it _feels_ constant) or seeing how intensely Joe’s eyes light up whenever he sees one of them arrive at their lunch table or don’t even get him _started_ on lunch, because that’s when they’re all together and he has to deal with their not-so-secretly under-the-table hand holding and blushing smiles and, like, one time Pete tried to feed Patrick his French fries, and Andy was this fucking close to getting up and moving to the metalheads’ corner of the cafeteria because at least none of them were getting a date anytime soon. He’s not bitter, he’s not lonely, and he’s certainly not jealous of all of them all at once, he just knows when too much PDA is too much PDA. Also, his problems with their relationship has nothing to do with his recent Dashboard Confessional binge, which definitely isn’t only spurring on his emo feelings and stuff.

It’s their fifth day back at school (even though it feels like it’s been a month’s worth of romantic spectacles from the three) when Patrick taps Andy’s arm very gently and Andy turns around and looks right into his worried blue eyes and has to take a breath before he trains his ears to what Patrick is saying.

“Are you okay? You’ve been quiet—erm, quieter, lately.”

Andy glances over at Pete and Joe; they’re captivated by their own separate conversation and don’t appear to notice Patrick and Andy. He takes another breath before answering, eyes glued to his veggie burger and greasy white paper plate against his worn-out blue plastic tray. All of these colors are skewed. He’s barely eaten anything so far, just sighed and made half-hearted attempts at his math homework the period before it’s due.

“Yeah. I’m alright. I’ll be better once midterms are over, you know?” He spends himself a quick, weak laugh, to which Patrick returns a slight smile—nothing more than curving his lips. Patrick looks like he wants to ask more but doesn’t, just turns back around and plays around with his phone, which is more than a little suspicious since he doesn’t have any social media and the only people he texts on a regular basis are Andy, Joe, and Pete.

Andy picks at his burger’s bun and keeps his head down for the rest of lunch, until they all part ways for their next classes, and Andy remembers that he forgot to finish his homework.

Shit.

He rushes to class to tell his teacher that he just needs to go to the bathroom before class, since he knows how much teachers hate when kids ask to go right once class begins. He mentally kicks himself as he sprints over to the nearest guy’s bathroom for not having completed it earlier. He’s usually way on top of all things school, but lately the whole Patrick/Pete/Joe dynamic has distracted him from focusing on too much else. It’s been taking up a surprisingly large amount of his thoughts, lately.

Andy doesn’t let himself dwell on it as he nearly punches open a stall and clicks the door behind him—sometimes the guy teachers or janitors will use the student bathrooms and he doesn’t want to get caught. He leans his paper against the stall’s mottled gray wall and starts to scribble down nonsense answers to his math worksheet. It’s not like his teacher checks whether or not answers are right, just if he did it.

Not nearly a minute into hastening to write down whatever looks like a coherent or fitting solution to each question, Andy hears the bathroom door open and two distinct pairs of feet patter on the dirtied tile floor. He rolls his eyes at first, thinking it’s just another rowdy couple looking for a place to make out and skip class or maybe two guys looking for a place to hide and smoke, or maybe even someone trying to finish up homework like him, but that’s before he hears them speak.

“Shut _up_ , Joe! Someone might be in here—“

“Pshh, it’s okay, Patrick, stop getting your panties in a twist. See, there’s a stall right here we can go, you just have to—“

“Oh my _God_ , just shut up and kiss me already.”

Um.

Shit.

Andy hears muffled giggles and a bump against the stall wall on which he had been holding his math worksheet. He contemplates inventing a time travel machine so he can convince his mother to never give birth him so he never has to deal with this. Oh, God. Seriously, of all troubles and trials Andy could’ve gone through instead of _this_ , Jesus fucking _Christ._

There’s another wave of muffled giggles as Andy tries to figure out what to do. He can’t just walk out, because then they would definitely hear and realize someone actually was in there and they would peak out and see him and wonder why he didn’t speak up and tell them he was in there. He doesn’t want to stay there, because that would mean enduring hearing two of his best friends making out and possibly getting it on. All of his thoughts are spiraling out of control and hearing Patrick’s breathing get quicker and louder as it echoes around the dim bathroom walls is not something he ever thought he hear but, then again, here he is. None of this is helping right now.

He makes sure to be careful as he sets down his pencil and paper down on the top of the toilet paper dispenser. Curse Joe for not being wary of a school bathroom to check under the stall for a pair of feet or a backpack. Curse Patrick for not checking again, too. Curse all three of them for getting together in the first place. Andy knows it’s mean, but all this relationship has caused him so far is a heightened level of frustration and exclusion.

“Fuck, Joe, do that again.” Andy can barely make out what Patrick said since he whispered it so softly, but it’s enough to make his cheeks burn and question everything that’s ever happened in the universe, ever. He isn’t supposed to be thinking of his friends—his _best_ friends—as hot or desirable or anything like that. He’s afraid to close his eyes for fear of unwanted images of them that he’ll regret remembering later, or worse, regret forgetting. The world really is out to get him.

He’s just standing in the dead center of a bathroom stall, waiting out two of his best friends making out, more than a couple minutes into the next period, and his homework isn’t even done.

Shit.

Andy has to learn how to quickly remember to breath again. He’s sure it’s a very useful skill.

“Joe—God, please—“ If he’s being honest, Andy would’ve expected more sarcastic talk from Joe, and less… talk, in general, from Patrick. He hates the idea that this has become easy for them, all of them, so they just fall into a routine of hiding kisses before ( _during, too,_ his mind grumbles) classes and sharing heated moments when they think they’re alone. He hates all ideas of them, together. He also hates that he’s being so cruel to them—albeit, in his mind—and isn’t sure why he can just be happy for them like he is for so many other couples he knows. He doesn’t even have a problem with there being three of them. As long as they all care for each other and don’t leave anyone out, he’s cool with it. But he’s been realizing, lately, that it’s him who feels left out, and he isn’t even the relationship. Yeah, yeah, friends are important, but.

Andy breathes. He wants _this_. He breathes again.

Shit.

He’s deciding between a private meltdown or a public one when he hears another bump on the stall’s gray wall and another exclamation from Patrick.

“Andy, _fuck._ ”

He freezes, eyes wide. His face heats up against his will. Did they somehow see him? No. The stall door is still closed, and no one’s peering underneath the wall. He bites his lip. Why would Patrick say his name? Maybe Patrick didn’t even say it at all, and his mind just twisted it to be what he subconsciously wanted to hear. But he trusts his hearing too much to believe that. He’s just about to reevaluate himself for about the hundredth time this day when he hears Joe speak up.

“You’re so hot when you say his name, Trick.”

Okay, so. Andy’s mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. (Haha, trick. Trick. Patrick. Get it?) Patrick really did say his name. But why? And why does Joe think it’s hot?

Shit. Joe thinks Patrick saying Andy’s name is _hot._ If Andy ever gather the courage to speak to any of them again and then ever gather the impossibly level of courage to speak to them about this incident, he is _so_ kinkshaming Joe. Unless Joe kinkshames him for staying there and listening to them. Which. He doesn’t want to think about.

Maybe one or two minutes later, Andy’s just gathered himself enough to actually finish his math homework when Patrick and Joe choose that moment to finish making out or whatever and leave. Once he’s sure they’re gone and probably not in the floor’s hallway anymore, he takes his bag and races toward his math class as fast as he can without being caught for running in the halls by a hall cop. Oh, the wonder that is public high school.

The teacher gives him a skeptical look when he enters, since it’s more than a couple minutes into their precious class time, and so he weakly supplies a sufficient enough excuse—“There was a line for the stalls.”—and then rushes to take his assigned seat. He hopes the blush is gone so no one thinks suspiciously of him, but no one in this class talks to him on a regular basis anyway, so. He doesn’t really have anything to worry about. In this class, at least. It’s a relief to not have to worry about something.

He’s able to half forget about the incident for the rest of the school day. It’s still steaming in the back of his mind, and whenever somebody mentions going to the bathroom, his mind goes wild for a second, and then calms down. It’s not until he goes and reaches for the keys to his van in the parking lot that it’s at the forefront of his brain again, and his heart starts to beat a little faster, maybe to the rhythm of “Hands Down,” maybe not.

Andy sits on the edge of the drivers seat. He wants this day to be over. He half-realizes that there’s no real reason for him to be acting awkward around Patrick and Joe; after all, they didn’t know he was there. He was the one who—he was there. He’s just not sure if he can face them. There’s so many questions that will never be spoken that he has for them, mainly about proper reactions to boyfriends saying someone else’s name when making out. Calling it hot isn’t, um, that too conventional. It’s not like they’re in the most conventional relationship, but. There are things to be expected. Exclusivity, for example.

Pete is first out, which is a bit of a surprise, to say the least. He’s usually talking to a billion people in the halls before he even gets to his locker at the end of the day, and he has to pick up a billion things from teachers before leaving the building. He’s usually late, is all. His freshly re-dyed hair nearly glitters in the bright sun as he runs towards the van, shining in all its purple glory.

For a split second, Andy’s wondering where Joe and Patrick are leads to earlier images and familiar sounds on repeat in his head and he has to shake himself out of before Pete tugs the van’s door open and hops in the middle. Andy checks the rear mirror and makes sure he isn’t blushing or looks too much like he knows exactly how Patrick and Joe sound when they make out. He doesn’t usually talk too much when it’s just him and someone else in the van, so his voice is spared whatever embarrassing highs it may have reached otherwise. He checks the middle mirror, too, and sees that Pete is smiling, and so he smiles back, albeit a bit more tiredly.

Pete softly asks if Andy wants to be in his Snapchat streaks. Maybe he senses that something’s off with him today, because all of his questions seem softer, all of his smiles seem less smirk-y and more kind. Andy wonders if he acts this way around Joe and Patrick, when they’re alone. He pushed away the feelings of jealousy and permits Pete to include him in his streaks.

Speaking of Joe and Patrick—they’re walking out of the school’s back door together, hand in hand, not even looking anywhere else by the other, which, by the way, is a huge safety risk. Andy would berate them for it if he weren’t so adamant about making sure to not talk to them at all once they’re in the van.

Andy closes his eyes and tries to compose himself. If he acts normal, they’ll act normal, they’ll be acting normal anyway. He doesn’t even have to talk to them.

“Hey, Andy, do you mind if you just drop me off at Joe’s house with him today?”

Shit.

He hadn’t even noticed that Patrick and Joe had reached the van, or that Patrick had been peering through the passenger seat’s open window. Andy tries not to scream as he shakes his head and acknowledges Patrick’s wide smile and nod of thanks. He also tries not to look at Patrick’s mouth or lips or tongue when Patrick’s speaking again, this time to Pete and Joe about something band-related. He fails.

Patrick, Joe, and Pete all squeeze into the three seats in the back, Pete still in the middle, Joe on Pete’s left, Patrick on his right. They fall into conversation easily, saving Andy from speaking, and it’s calm in the van for a bit while Andy drives and takes everything in. Word is that there’s going to be some heavy snow over the weekend. He wishes it would happen during a school day, or rather not happen at all.

They’re just about arriving at Pete’s house when Pete and Joe start arguing over something petty, as per usual. Andy doesn’t usually get involved in things like this unless they involve him, which, of course, is what happens.

“Andy would _never_ insult my fashion choices. They’re _my_ fashion choices. You wouldn’t hurt me like that, would you, Andy?”

Andy decides to take the bait and sighs theatrically.

“If you wanted to wear a black trash bag, I probably wouldn’t blink twice. Get off his back, Joe.”

Pete cheers and Joe pouts, which looks cuter than it should.

“Yeah, Joe, get off my back.”

“I’ll show you getting off a back, Pete.”

They then proceed to fake-wrestle, which ends with Pete peppering Joe with small, light kisses all over his shirt and singing his endless praises. If any of them see Andy’s hands tighten at the wheel during it, none of them mention it.

Andy pulls up to Pete’s house’s driveway and unlocks the car door for him. Pete’s gathering his bags and hugging his boyfriends goodbye when Patrick moves to kiss him on the cheek and whispers him a question in his ear.

Pete looks sad for a moment, and shakes his head.

“I can’t, Trick, I have this huge essay due tomorrow in English. Maybe I can stay another time?”

Patrick looks down and nods his head in assent. He watches Pete as he leaves and sighs once the door is closed again. He and Joe settle in for the rest of the ride, head leaning on shoulders, and are quiet again until Andy reaches Joe’s house. He pauses once he parks and looks in the mirror to see Patrick and Joe. He breathes and they breathe. In a weird sort of metaphor, he wants to breathe with them.

It takes him a second to realize that they’re waiting for Andy to unlock the van door. It’s him keeping them waiting, and they’re all aware of it now. He feels anxious, pensive, flushed, part of something. He clears his throat, swallows. He doesn’t want to look up, but he doesn’t know how to say this without seeing them. He has to.

“Guys, before you leave, I just wanted to talk.”

Patrick and Joe exchange an unreadable look then turn to stare at Andy. He just looks in the mirror; he doesn’t think he can turn and face them.

“When. After. Um, after lunch, I realized I hadn’t done my math homework and so I hurried into a bathroom stall to complete it so my teacher wouldn’t be mad. And, um, I was still working on it when. You. You guys came in.” He’s looking down now, and even without the mirror, he’s sure his face is bright red.

“I couldn’t leave because you guys were, were there, and. It just felt like I was in too deep and couldn’t leave until after you both left.” Now that he’s hearing his explanation, it feels weak, like it was preventable, and it was his fault.

He musters up the courage to look back in the mirror so he can see their reactions. Patrick is blushing as well, while Joe just looks confused.

“I’m sorry you heard us, Andy. It… won’t happen again?” Joe trails off a bit on the last sentence, making it sound like a question. He seems satisfied with his response, until Patrick punches him not very lightly on his shoulder.

“What was that for?”

“You ass! Andy heard us! He heard _me._ ” Andy would laugh if the atmosphere wasn’t so heavy, if the situation wasn’t... this.

The confusion on Joe’s face gradually turns into comprehension. It’s like seeing someone figure out the meaning of a song’s lyrics for the first time, or finally understanding a really difficult riddle. Again, Andy would laugh, but considering the circumstances, and the tight ball of anxiety and fear knitted in his stomach, he doesn’t.

“I’m really sorry you had to hear that, Andy. I… Is there any way we can still be friends?” Patrick is looking down, ashamed, and his tone is hopeless. Joe rests his arm around his shoulders. He looks thoughtful.

“I actually.” Andy swallows the lump in his throat and carries on. “I don’t think so.” At this, Patrick looks up in shock, and Andy wishes he was there to comfort him because that wasn’t exactly what he was trying to say. The confusion is now imminent on both of their faces.

“What do you mean?” Patrick sounds breathless.

“I actually thought it was, um, I really liked hearing you guys.” Fighting the reignited blush and the feelings of terror uncoiling from his stomach, Andy stays staring at them from the mirror, a new expression of hope and maybe longing. “I agree with Joe. Hearing you say my name, like that, was really hot.”

Patrick looks stunned. “Oh,” he mumbles. Next to him, Joe raises an eyebrow and a smirk creeps up his face.

“Once we’re finished with this, I am _so_ kinkshaming you, dude.”

“Once we’re finished with this?” Andy’s voice gets higher with every syllable.

The smirk fades into something more serious.

“You want to date us, right? All of us? I think it must call for some form of celebratory make outs, doesn’t it?”

Andy doesn’t break eye contact as he nods slowly. He begins to smile himself. 

“Do you want to call Pete?”

Patrick almost drops his phone trying to call Pete as fast as possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope the ending wasnt too clunky? anyways this was rly fun to write thanks! again, if u liked it leave kudos/a comment below!

**Author's Note:**

> also forgive me for the absence of andy in this; someone could literally just say the word and i would probably write another chapter for this in which he joins their relationship. but also if yall want andy content im also probably going to be writing a 5+1 things for him so yay!!!!! i feel guilty since most of my stuff is pete-centric so yeah.
> 
> hope yall enjoyed this, leave kudos + comments below if u did!!


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